To Dance Freely
by Kedd
Summary: They’ve diverted from their old, comfortable pattern, but is this an aberration or the start of something new? A companion piece to ‘Overcoming Gravity’. S/J.


**Title: **To Dance Freely  
**Author:** Kedd**  
Rating:** Mature  
**Summary: **They've diverted from their old, comfortable pattern, but is this an aberration or the start of something new? A companion piece to 'Overcoming Gravity'. S/J.  
**Disclaimer:** Stargate: SG-1 is not, has never been, and (sadly) will never be mine.  
**Completed:** September 18, 2009.

* * *

He never was sure how they'd made it back to his house in one --_ fairly_ respectable -- piece. His mind certainly hadn't been on navigation and he didn't think Carter had even known where he lived (although, he knew by now not to underestimate the extent of Carter's knowledge). At any rate, he hoped she'd been more focused on their hands, joined together, his thumb gently rubbing circles on the soft skin of the back of her hand. Or on the way they brushed against each other, more often than was necessary given the fairly empty sidewalks as they approached his place. (He loved the feel of her curves rubbing against his side, the current closeness going against the images they had tried to portray for so long and with the instincts that had plagued them for longer.) Mostly, he hoped that she'd been focused on him, as he'd been on her, simply absorbing the other's presence after years apart.

Once they were inside his door, he had no lingering doubts about where her focus was.

He'd barely had time to remove his cover before his arms were full of Carter. Not that he was complaining, by any stretch of the imagination. He'd waited years to feel this very sensation, and he was determined to make the most of it, all too aware that (despite her seeming acknowledgement of what lay between them) happiness is a very fleeting state, especially if your name is Jack O'Neill. So, he gathered her tightly against his chest, opening his lips to those pressed desperately against him, and let his hands roam over her form, tracing the lines of her back. It's as she begins to explore his mouth that the reality of it all hits him: the softness of her breasts pressed against him, the rough texture of her demin jacket under his fingers (and of her jeans, when his hands stray lower), the coolness of the wall behind him penetrating through his dress blues, the heat of her tongue, the taste of her mouth, and the clean scent of her hair and skin, so familiar after their years of working together, and so much more intense with her in his arms. And he's momentarily overwhelmed by it all, in the most wonderful way, but still overwhelmed, so he his tilts his head back ever so slightly, breaking the contact between them with a deep groan. He needs a moment just to absorb everything, to sort through the sensations that are bombarding him, to imprint them in his memory so that when this is over he'll have something to treasure in those quiet moments of his evenings alone at home.

He misses his opportunity, though, because Carter latches onto his neck, nibbling, tasting, and sucking with a desperation that he doesn't quite understand, or perhaps one he understands too well, because his hands have a mind of their own and they're trying to remove Carter's jacket without removing her from her position against his chest. And he finally succeeds, running his hands down her back from the softness of her pleasantly disheveled hair, which twines enticingly around his fingers, to the delightfully rounded curves of her butt before he sneaks them underneath her shirt. He can't believe how soft her skin is as he runs his thumbs along either side of her spine. While all he can see physically at the moment is the top of a blonde head, he's picturing the creamy-paleness of her skin, speckled here and there with sunspots, relying on glimpses he's seen over the years (and the one good look he had, at Hathor's base) to visualize what his hands are exploring. And as he ventures up higher still he begins to realize that maybe, for now, he doesn't have to imagine and remember. And before he even consciously decides to do anything about it, his hands have worked to unclasp her bra, and he's about to remove her shirt when he feels her head resting against his heart, still after her earlier flurry of movement, and he wonders if maybe she's as lost as he is, so he reassures her in the only way he's ever known how, by tightening his arms around her and ducking his head down over her shoulder, and adds (as he's always wanted to) a gentle kiss just behind her ear.

It's only a brief moment, but he thinks he feels her relax, which he takes as permission to continue, and removes her shirt, ducking his head back to her neck to explore the skin there, his hands running down her shoulders to gently brush off her bra straps, the undergarment falling softly to the floor as he reaches to cup her breasts, reveling in their weight in his palms. And he breathes in her scent, he tastes the skin where her neck joins her shoulder, and he lightly caresses the outside curves of her breasts, delicately flicks her rosy nipples, and occasionally squeezes just because he can. His rhythm is broken when Carter lets out a noise somewhere between a growl and a purr and his grip is broken when she pulls his undershirt off over his head. But the sound she made only served to kick his arousal up a notch, and as he reaches for her once more, he's less in control of himself than he had been, roughly bringing them together and spinning her around so that she's the one pinned against the wall, using his body weight to keep her there, although based on the intensity of the kiss they're sharing he doubts she minds. So, he thrusts one of his thighs between hers, feeling her rub against him, and he rocks his hips (less subtly) against her, enjoying the friction building between them until she lets out a soft chuckle, puffs of air ghosting across his cheek.

He pulls back ever so slightly, and asks the first thing that comes to mind. "What?"

The smile he gets in response sets him at ease, although it doesn't do much to slow the pounding of his heart, since he's still got a smiling Carter, half-naked, in his arms, against the wall of his entranceway. And it seems that the location is what's amusing her, although, really, he can think of many more interesting places they could have made out in, and sees no problem with telling her that, even if it does reveal a bit more about how long he's desired her than he'd like. Still, it earns him a laugh, and a grin, and he's always been willing to put himself on the line for Carter, so what's one more time, in the grand scheme of things? (Although, as he cups her cheeks, letting his fingers plunge into her blonde locks as he kisses her once again, he thinks that it's always been easier for him to risk his life than his heart, but if she sees any hint of that in his eyes, she ignores it, focusing on the kiss itself, so he follows her lead, like he so often has, closing his own eyes tightly, and immersing himself in the taste of Carter.)

He guides them, between kisses, to his bedroom, using the short distance to finish removing first her clothes, and then his. Carefully lowering himself to the bed, and bringing her over him, feeling skin on skin for the first time, with nothing separating them. Smoothing his hands over every part of her body, he lets his lips follow, trying to impress every inch of her into his memory by sight, and touch, and taste and he hopes that those three will be enough, because he doesn't think that he can wait much longer. And then Carter's urging him up the bed, from where his head was buried between her thighs, and he's deep inside of her, but she's so much more than he expected that he holds himself tense for a moment, soaking in the feeling of her: wet, hot, and tight around him. (If he's completely honest, he needs to hold himself steady for a moment to regain control. He's always danced near the line with Carter, but now he's been jumped so far over it that he knows he can't go back. And for a split second, before his body takes complete control and he loses himself in her, he wonders if maybe he should have looked before he leaped, because the ground could be rocky and him without a parachute.) But it's glorious, and she's more than glorious, with sweat beading on her skin, her neck arched backwards, and lips parted with groans. Her legs tighten around his waist as he rolls his hips just so, and he looks down at the contrast of his rough brown hand on her stomach, the disparity both arousing him further and helping him to regain control, before he slips his fingers back between her legs. He can tell that she's getting closer by the rhythm of her breaths, by the soft mewling noises she makes, by the feel of her muscles under his hands and around him. And he rocks desperately against her, gazing down at her, and as their eyes meet he sees that sparkle in her blue depths that he always associated with fast bikes and fast planes, so he adds hard sex to the list, and when she grins at him, crazy and carefree, he can't help but smile back. And when he leans down and kisses the grin off her face it's enough to make her clench around him, and she breaks the kiss as her head arches back. So he tucks his face into that safe spot against the side of her neck, where his grunts and groans can wash over her ear and his tongue can taste the faintest hint of salt on her skin. He bites gently down, and thrusts erratically striving for his own completion, but it's the sound of his name whispered on her lips that finally pushes him over.

He hopes she's broken the habit of 'Sir' completely now, but as he thrusts lazily through the aftermath, muscles draining of all tension, he finds he can't quite lift his head from the crook of her neck to see the possible truth in her eyes. He rests on top of her, his hands moving to stroke her shoulders and arms, even as hers brush through his hair and circle on the nape of his neck. Finally, and all too soon, he places one last gentle kiss on her skin, lingering as he inhales, and then moves beside her, rolling onto his back. He drapes the sheet over them with one hand, and throws his other arm over his face, not quite ready to face the world just yet, especially if he misjudged her earlier spurt of words, or if he misread her smile, placing a grin that belonged somewhere else in the same category of things that Carter finds fun, and exhilarating, and lovable.

His breath hitches in his throat, both because of his train of thought, and because Carter has curled up against his side, one leg thrown casually over his. He waits, giving her a chance to think, to back away, to tuck it all back in where it's been for so long, because that's their long-standing pattern, and while this afternoon has been a break in it that's never happened before, he doesn't believe that that necessarily means a new pattern's being formed.

He's been fooled too many times to believe it just yet.

So he waits, face hidden, and listens to her breathing. He knows she's not asleep by the rhythm of her breaths and by the patterns her fingers are tracing on his chest, but he can practically hear her brain working. He knows they said – and did – a lot this afternoon, but it was new, spontaneous, and unthinking; a burst of emotion. And he doesn't know where it came from yet (was it seeing him, an old friend for the first time in years, or some deeper wellspring?), or if it's sustainable, or if she wants it to be. For every emotional explosion there's been in the past, there's been an equally strong wall built, keeping it all corked down. As her fingers slow, her palm falling flat over his sternum, she lets out a little sigh that he can't quite read, and he feels compelled to break the silence. So he tentatively clears his throat, and speaks just loudly enough to be heard around his arm. "Made any decisions, yet?" And he feels her tense, her short nails digging ever so slightly into his chest.

"What?"

And her tone's enough to make him raise his arm ever so slightly, chocolate brown eyes peering into confused, hazy blue. There's a slight crease between her brows, her eyes are heavy lidded, her lips swollen, her hair mussed, and he doesn't think he's ever seen a more beautiful sight, so he sighs with regret as he lowers his arm once again, because this is one offer he can't make face to face, not any more. And it wouldn't be a fair choice for her if she saw what he knows his face will reveal. "About this." He pauses. "Us." He leaves it unstated, but knows that the word is lingering in the suddenly heavy air surrounding them_, "Me."_ He feels the slight scraping of her nails against his skin as she draws in a breath, and knows she'll feel his muscles tensing, but he's unable to help that slight betrayal of his feelings. "It's okay, whatever you decide. If you want to go."

Later, he'll debate whether that's as far as he got because it's as far as he could get, or if she interrupted him, with her small hands dragging his arm away from his face, forcing him to look at her as she clambered over top of him. "Jack," she says, with longing and a fond exasperation, and he begins to feel a small bubble of hope balloon in his chest, even as she pauses to decide what to say. "Jack," she repeats, with sadness, and he tries to tamp it down, as her gaze focuses back down on him, her hands coming to grasp his cheeks and keep him looking straight her. "Jack," a third time, and this time the best, because it's breathy and ends with a kiss, that's short, but deep, and when she pulls away, she doesn't go far. Instead she gently pats his cheeks, and exposes herself to him completely. "Jack," she says, "You're an idiot, at times, but I think I love you."

And his breath catches in his throat once more, and he stares at her, speechless, as that grin begins to reappear on her face, and he knows she's seeing everything in his eyes: his surprise, his awe; tenderness and love; but below it all a profound hope. And he can only stare, silent, for heartbeats longer, as her words soak deep into his being, before he replies, "I hope so, Carter." And the moment stretches, golden, in the fading light of a Washington afternoon, before he reaches up to grasp her, bringing her tightly against his chest. And this time, when he buries his face in her neck, it's not to hide, but to expose himself fully. "I hope so, Sam," he whispers, "Because I think I love you too."

Even as her arms tighten around him, her body relaxes against his, and he runs his hands through hair made more golden by the fading light, feeling a weight he had carried for so long fall off his shoulders, and he begins to rise, slowly but steadily, like a balloon cut free, drifting uncertainly upwards to where it might be overwhelmed by errant drafts or might be able to finally dance freely amongst the stars.

End.


End file.
